THUGLIT Issue Eleven
Page 1
THUGLIT
Issue Eleven
Edited by Todd Robinson
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in the works are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
THUGLIT: Issue Eleven
ISBN-13: 978-1499341263
ISBN-10: 1499341261
Stories by the authors: ©Max Sheridan, ©Angel Luis Colón, ©Matthew McBride, ©J. David Gonzalez, ©Kenneth Levine, ©Jessica Adams, ©Scott Grand, ©Michael Cebula
Published by THUGLIT Publishing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the Author(s).
Table of Contents
A Message from Big Daddy Thug
Sounding by Matthew McBride
Black Pearls by Jessica Adams
Dinner Rush by Angel Luis Colón
A Bottle of Scotch and a Sharp
Buck Knife by Scott Grand
A Plea Bargain To Purgatory
by Kenneth Levine
Larry's Proposal by Michael Cebula
Ofrenda by J. David Gonzalez
192 Over 110 by Max Sheridan
Author Bios
A Message from Big Daddy Thug
Welcome back, Thugleteers!
Normally, I throw you some pithy crap about the seasons, whatever holiday just passed…you know… Bullshit.
Except it's still cold as shit here in NY, and the most recent holiday was Arbor Day. It's 4am. I can't even make a creepy springtime pun. CAUSE IT AIN'T GODDAMN SPRING!!!
I got nuthin'.
Like I said, it's 4am, and I'm freakin' tired. SO, we're gonna do this like one of those old Choose Your Own Adventure books.
1) Yell something vaguely threatening and violent at yourself in a mirror.
2) Make a sexual innuendo about whatever genitalia you find the most comical.
3) Compare the following stories to either the threat of violence, the genitals, or threat of genital violence.
See? You just made your own Thuglit intro!
Mazel Tov!
IN THIS ISSUE OF THUGLIT:
We all float on.
If you can't take the heat, stay the fuck out of this kitchen.
Where did you just pull that out of..? Never mind. I don't want to know.
Ever wonder what would happen if Lenny from Of Mice and Men decided to pull a heist?
Side effects may include…MURDER (sorry)
At midnight, a bullet goes into a head. Your head. How it gets there is up to you.
Like father, like son.
SEE YOU IN 60, FUCKOS!!!
Todd Robinson (Big Daddy Thug)
4/26/14
Sounding
by Matthew McBride
I used to work with a guy named Jim who liked to stick things in his peehole.
They call it 'sounding,' but who knows why. And who knows why anyone would do that? But apparently, it's a thing. People do this. They sound. Grown men, like Jim, put objects inside their dicks—by the way, I should mention we called him Fishhook Jim, for reasons I'll get to later—but first, when I say I worked with him, what I should have said was that I used to be a prison guard and Fishhook Jim was an inmate known for smuggling contraband.
They said he made good money at it, but I think he enjoyed the work.
"The secret's in the urethra," Fishhook told me. "Gotta stretch it out."
I wasn't sure what he meant by that, and I didn't care. Far as I was concerned, if a man wanted something bad enough to stretch his urethra he'd earned it. It was part of my duty to search the offenders, but after a while I just stopped checking. That was the worst part about my job. Looking at a man's asshole first thing in the morning. Once a week this happened, so once a week I'd forgo my breakfast. You would not believe the things I've found hidden in assholes. I once found 2D batteries and a microphone in the rectum of a guy named Roadhouse.
They called him Roadhouse on account he looked like Patrick Swayze.
When asked about this discovery, he had no idea how they'd gotten there. That was the typical response from an inmate caught smuggling contraband. They'd claim it was an accident. That they'd been walking backwards, naked, tripped and landed on a pile of stuff. That, somehow, it went right in. Offenders have said that. Grown men trying to convince other grown men a story like this was possible.
Besides smugglers, prison birthed a lot of good actors. And some bad ones, too.
I'll never forget the time Russ Orlando, a good friend of mine, found a remote control to a television in the ass of a former preacher. That was among the strangest finds. We also had an inmate eat a bedspring once. Just so he could leave his cell. In lockdown, a trip to the ER was a welcome experience. Some guys would do anything to get out, even swallow a bedspring. They called him Bedspring after that, a name to which he answered until the day they released him.
Last I heard he sells insurance.
I toiled long hours at Algoa and I met all kinds of people, and if my days as a prison guard had taught me anything, it was that you can never judge a man by the size of his pecker. I learned that the hard way and it's a lesson I'll not forget.
It was a few years back and it was my day to work noon meal. That was a perilous time since food was an admired currency. Anger flared quickly, which kept you on your toes. A large group had formed that day, and in prison, a large group was always dangerous. Your first goal is safety, so you must be prepared. You don't have a gun, just a radio and a can of mace. Not enough to stop a man, but enough to slow him down. At least that's what they tell you, though I have a scar to prove otherwise where an inmate stabbed me with an ink pen he'd concealed in his penis.
Before that, I'd never had a problem with an inmate. I treated them with respect and they treated me the same. I knew things took place beyond my control, so I was known to let things slide. The inmates respected that. Because a certain level of corruption was expected, it was necessary. By design, captivity births a food chain only the strongest, most violent men will survive.
It was having that perspective that made me good at what I did. It was also the thing that got me fired. In fact, you could say my perspective was responsible for my current situation since I became a smuggler after I lost my job. Technically, I'd become a smuggler while I still had my job—until they found out. That's when they fired me. Endeavored to convict me. But their only witness developed amnesia when someone ran a razorblade down the back of his neck.
I had no control over that, but I was certainly grateful, and they never learned where the offender hid the blade, though a formal investigation had been launched.
You never knew what to expect in a place like prison, but I'd made good connections inside. Guys like Fishhook Jim had become my friends. While it's not like we exchanged recipes, we did exchange information. Once I found myself outside, after cashing my last unemployment check, I paid Fishhook Jim's brother, Randy, a visit. Something Fishhook Jim said I should do. Really, he didn't just tell me, he begged me. Said repaying me with employment for the kindness I'd shown was the least he could do.
When his brother came to the door, I introduced myself and told him who I was. Asked him if there was any job they needed help with.
"What d'you know 'bout this business?"
I told him I knew plenty. I'm a pretty good smuggler. After all, it was true. I'd learned from the best, having seen them all in action. The human body was a suitcase with skin. That's what prison taught me. That every hole was a hiding place, and there was nothing off limits to a man who was desperate.
I remember when a convict lost a rock of crack cocaine he'd stashed in his ear. It left him with a punctured eardrum when he retrieved it with a coat hanger. In the end, he lost his hearing, but the issue that followed had not been about his hearing, or about cocaine, but the coat hanger, and the mystery of how it was smuggled inside in the first place.
I left Randy's house with nothing. He said he couldn't help. That I should just go home and forget about that place, and if they ever wanted my help they'd call.
"OK," I said, and left but did not go home. I went to a bar called Sam's instead, where the light was sparse and the dust was thick. The kind of place where you could drink all afternoon and not say a word to anyone. A long crack ran the length of the wide front window that had been there for as long as I could remember.
I walked inside to a handful of people and squinted through a haze of smoke. Walked to the bar and placed an order—a draft beer and a glass of the cheapest bourbon they had.
The bartender nodded. His name was Vince. I handed him a five and took both glasses without exchanging further words. Walked to the back and sat down. Started with the tumbler of bourbon and followed with a chug of beer that drained half my glass.
In the light, there was a smudge of lipstick on the rim. I rubbed it off and looked at my thumb and saw a pink smear. I wiped the smear on my pant leg as a stranger approached the table.
Both tall and wide, he sat down without introducing himself. Leaned forward and chewed his gum with a mouthful of almond white teeth. He said his name was Randy, that his brother was Fishhook Jim, but this was not the man I'd talked to earlier.
"What about the man I talk—"
"—that's just a guy who works for me."
"That wasn't Randy?"
"I'm Randy."
I gave him a hard look and questioned him.
"That's what you say—that's also what he said."
"Looks like you're in a tight spot."
"Maybe you're both named Randy?"
He smirked and his round face made deep wrinkles. This was the right Randy, alright. He looked like a taller, fatter version of Fishhook Jim. This made sense, him feeling me out like he had. Randy was smart. He didn't take chances when he met new people. That was good business etiquette for a man in his line of work, and something I could appreciate.
I didn't know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut. I just drank and looked as tough as I could and waited for him to say what he'd come to say.
"What kinda work you lookin for?"
"Kind that pays."
He nodded. "This work pays, but it's risky."
I told him I could start right now.
"Good," he said. "Follow me."
"Let's talk about the money first."
"What about it?"
"You tell me. What about it?"
Randy sat back in his chair and smart-eyed me. He blew a small bubble and popped it quickly, in a way that made the sound as loud as possible.
Randy stood. He said, "Come on, you wanna work."
I finished my bourbon and my beer and followed him out the door.
We left Sam's and drove to a new place—a garage behind a bowling alley called Roy's Lanes. It was a big garage and I followed Randy inside. Both of our vehicles fit comfortably. I was nervous, but I had a gun. And I trusted Fishhook Jim, which meant I trusted Randy.
He parked his truck and got out and motioned for me to do the same.
I got out of my car and Randy pulled a gun on me before I could draw mine.
"You fucker," I said.
"Calm down."
"Easy for you to say, Randy."
He stood there and looked at me. Judging me. Sizing me up with his thug's eye.
"Take off your clothes, man."
"I hardly know you."
Randy wanted to laugh, but didn't. He kept a tight face. He needed to know I was cool, and that I wasn't wired. I understood that. Randy was a pro. The fact he took precautions instilled my confidence.
I pulled off my shirt and dropped it on the floor. Kicked off my cowboy boots and dropped my pants to my ankles. My gun thumped against the concrete and he frowned at me.
I shrugged.
He made a gesture with his gun, nodding with it, implying I should lower my shorts. Begrudgingly I did, though I found it both ironic and humiliating. Ironic because this was a strip-search, an act I'd performed numerous times and now found myself the victim of. Humiliating because it was cold in the building and the draft caused my balls to shrink—then feeling weird I would even care. It's not like I was trying to impress Randy, and if he demanded a cavity-search I'd tell him to go ahead and shoot me.
"Listen," I said, "this is just getting weird."
"Yeah, I know. Jim just wanted you to know how this felt."
"I see. Well thanks for not looking in my asshole, Randy."
Randy said, "You're welcome."
I pulled up my pants and buttoned them and slipped on my boots.
Randy sat in a chair somebody had removed from a pickup truck and mounted to a block of wood. I sat on a five gallon bucket.
Randy fired up a smoke so I fired up a smoke.
"What do you know about Mexico?"
I told him I knew a lot. Which was a lie, but what's there to know about Mexico? Everything sucks and the people can't wait to leave. They'll swim across the river to get out of there. Or crawl through a tunnel. Or ride in the back of a hot truck.
What did I possibly need to know about Mexico?
"Here's all you need to know about Mexico," he said. "Drugs go north and money goes south."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
If he brought up Mexico he was talking about serious smuggling, the kind of thing a man like Fishhook Jim excelled at, so if we were talking about Mexico, we were talking about a professional operation.
"You mean running drugs across the border?"
"I mean runnin money."
"Money?"
"It's an easy gig."
I cracked my knuckles and tried to relax on the bucket.
"Tell me about it."
"You drive a car from St. Louis to Brownsville, Texas. That's all you do."
"That's all?"
"Yep."
I knew enough about guys like Randy to know that wasn't all.
"I'm in."
"First thing, you gotta rent a car."
"OK."
"A black Dodge Journey."
"Journey?"
"Like the band."
"OK."
"That's it," he threw his hands up. "Rent a black Dodge Journey, that's all you gotta do. For now."
I tried to adjust myself on the bucket. Sitting like that had pulled my pants tight across my thighs. I looked Randy in the eye. "What's the pay?"
"Three thousand dollars."
"Just for driving?"
"Just for drivin."
"That's good pay."
"I need someone I can trust."
"You can trust me, Randy."
"That's what my brother says."
I didn't ask how much money I'd be hauling, and the fact I didn't ask made me look professional, which reassured Randy he'd picked the right man.
I finished my smoke and dropped it on the concrete.
"When do I start?"
"How about now?"
"When do I get paid?"
Randy popped a bubble.
"Just be ready in the mornin."
He climbed in his truck and opened the garage door with a remote control.
I left the garage and drove to a rental car agency. Sat in the parking lot and thought. This was a big job. It was a big risk. I was getting mixed up with people who had a lot to lose a
nd would have no problem killing me.
I went inside and asked about a car before I could talk myself out of it.
"I'll have one in the morning," she said.
"What time?"
She told me.
"How much?"
She told me.
"Cash or credit?" she asked.
I said I'd let her know tomorrow and put the car on reserve.
I left the rental car agency and went to my place. Ate two burritos and drank a few beers. There was nothing on TV but I watched it anyway. I drifted off and woke to a knock on the front door. It was morning. Sun came through the room in slants of light. I was late for my first day of work and I sat up quickly. Stood and kicked the coffee table and stumbled to the door.
Randy waited. He said he'd been out there ten minutes and asked me where I'd been.
"Just got outta the shower."
"You got on the same clothes you wore yesterday."
I looked down and saw lipstick on my blue jeans and told him my washer's broke.
Randy wore tan slacks and a button-up shirt the color of peach skin. They didn't quite match the pants, and I would have let him know but he walked away.
"C'mon," he said. "Let's go."
"Right behind you, Big Hoss."
We walked to his Chevy truck, gray with heavy tint on the windows. The cab rocked on its hinges when Randy climbed in.
"You get the car?" he asked.
"They'll have it this morning."
We drove to the rental car agency and parked. Randy pulled a handful of tens and twenties from a money clip and counted five hundred dollars. Said that was enough for the car and a cheap motel.
"Hope this ain't coming outta my cut."
He scrunched his face together and mocked me. "No, it ain't comin outta your cut."